


What Happens in Helena

by wilddragonflying



Series: Leverage/Supernatural Crossover [1]
Category: Leverage, Supernatural
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-02-22
Updated: 2013-02-22
Packaged: 2017-12-03 06:45:00
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,324
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/695375
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wilddragonflying/pseuds/wilddragonflying
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sam's been at Stanford for a year now, and Dean still misses him. After a particularly nasty row with their father, Dean heads out to a bar in Helena, Montana. While there, he meets a man who just might be able to help him forget about things for a while.</p>
            </blockquote>





	What Happens in Helena

**Author's Note:**

> This is a prequel to my other Leverage/Supernatural crossover, Black Kings and White Knights. NO, Eliot & Dean are not being shipped together. Not by me, at least. I'm a Wincest fan, but the thought of Dean and Eliot... Well. Now I gotta go read some Wincest and remind myself why I ship that. What the hell would you even call Eliot/Dean?

Dean didn’t know the name of the bar he was currently in. All he knew was that he was in some town in Montana, trying to drown out his latest row with his father. He snorted as he downed the shot of whiskey. Seemed like since Sam had been gone—had it only been a year now? Felt like longer—all John and he did was argue since Sam wasn’t there to provoke their dad.

 

Dean raised his glass for a refill, and stared at the amber liquid before he downed it, the whiskey burning a fire down his throat, past his lungs, and into his stomach where it settled, banked. Physical pain was better than the pain of not having his little brother with him, where he could keep an eye on him. Of course, Sammy was probably doing fine, considering that now he didn’t have a reason for Dean to have to keep an eye on him; there were no monsters in Stanford as far as Dean knew.

 

Dean snarled when a guy bumped into him. “Watch it,” he growled, glancing over his shoulder. The guy was carrying a guitar, and the funky lights in the bar made his skin look orange and his hair look like it should be on a jack-o-lantern.

 

“Watch yourself,” the guy retorted, and Dean just growled wordlessly, going back to his drink. A few moments later, Dean heard a few chords drift over the noise of the crowd. Glancing up, he saw that the guy who’d bumped into him was on stage, strumming something. Dean just rolled his eyes. He didn’t particularly care about much right now: All he wanted was to get good and drunk.

 

Dean lost track of time until the guy who’d bumped into him slammed himself into the stool next to him, a blonde on his arm. “’Ey, Joe, gimme a shot!” he called up the bar, and the bartender nodded, bringing over a shot glass and pouring. Dean didn’t realize he was lifting his own glass for a refill until it was filled and he was downing his glass at the same time as the other guy. This happened a couple of times before the guy suddenly frowned, and turned to Dean. “What’re you trying to do?” the guy asked, and Dean shrugged.

 

“Get drunk,” he replied. A challenging light entered the stranger’s eyes.

 

“My name’s Eliot. Eliot Spencer. And I’m looking to get drunk, too.” Eliot looked him over, and Dean felt himself bristling.

 

“Look, Spelliot, or whatever the hell your name is, I don’t swing that way,” he said bluntly, turning back to the bar. He turned back at Eliot’s shout of laughter. “What’s so funny?” he demanded, the alcohol already starting to give him a buzz.

 

“I don’t either,” Eliot said with a grin. “But you seem like a guy who likes a challenge. Fifty bucks says I can drink you under the table.”

 

Dean considered the other man for a second. Roughly Dean’s height, longer hair— _Hair like Sammy’s,_ Dean realized, feeling like someone had just socked him in the gut—and a devil-may-care attitude. Finally, Dean nodded. “Deal,” he said, reaching out to shake on it.

 

Eliot grinned, then turned to the bar, motioning for the bartender to lean in closer. When he obliged, Eliot whispered something—presumably an order for a drink—that made the bartender blanch. Dean felt himself grow interested. What could make the bartender react that way? After a whispered but heated argument, Dean had his answer: The bartender disappeared into the back, but came out a moment later carrying a bottle that was tinged green and had a fairy clinging to it. Dean eyed the bottle apprehensively. “That stuff’s illegal,” he said doubtfully as the bartender quickly mixed up the drinks.

 

Eliot just grinned. “C’mon, Dean, tell me you’ve never done anything illegal.” His grin turned wolfish, and Dean felt himself responding the way he usually only did during a hunt.

 

“Oh, I’ve done plenty of illegal things,” he said carefully, talking the glass the bartender handed to him gingerly. “Just not something that I could actually get caught for.”

 

Eliot just grinned and raised his own glass. “Bottoms up,” he said, tossing it back. Dean mimicked the motion, and almost coughed at the punch to his throat the drink provided. “Jesus, they don’t call it ‘The Green Fairy’ for being gentle,” he managed to choke out. Eliot laughed.

 

“I never got your name,” Eliot commented as the bartender refilled their glasses.

 

“Dean. Dean Winchester,” Dean answered, holding his glass apprehensively. This stuff was supposed to be hallucinogenic, and Dean didn’t know if he wanted to get _that_ drunk.

 

“Well, let’s see who can hold their fairies better,” Eliot smirked just before he downed his glass. Dean followed, and then led the next round. And the round after that. And after that. By the seventh round, Dean couldn’t exactly see straight anymore. That was a dangerous position for a hunter to be in.

 

“I’m out,” he finally said, holding his hand over the top of his glass. Or what he thought was the top; he was actually off by about seven inches. He fished his wallet out of his back pocket and laboriously counted out five tens, and passed them over to Eliot. “You win,” he conceded, getting up and unsteadily making his way for the door.

 

“Come back any time,” Eliot called after him, chortling. Dean just ignored him, getting out of the bar was more important at the moment. Finally emerging into the side alley, Dean sat on a box and put his head between his knees, breathing deeply. He blinked a couple of times, holding his eyes wide open, trying to ignore the dancing figures in front of him. Of course the guy would know where to find an illegal cult drink.

 

The sound of a door opening and the blast of music caught Dean’s attention and made his skull ache. He squinted as he glanced up. He wasn’t surprised to see Eliot emerging from the bar, the blonde chick from earlier attached to his—neck. Dean didn’t like that. He stood up a little too quickly, and had to press his hand to his forehead, before reaching behind him for his gun. He frowned, pulling it out. If he wanted to kill this thing—assuming it _was_ a vampire—he needed to take its head off. He’d worry about that later, though.

 

He carefully followed the couple back down the alley, to where a ’69 Charger was parked. Eliot had the woman backed up against it, his mouth at her neck. Dean gritted his teeth against the dizziness from the alcohol and carefully cocked his gun. He had to be perfectly—

 

There. The vampire’s fangs were coming out. Wasting no time, Dean pulled his gun up, aimed carefully—it wouldn’t do to hit Eliot instead of the vampire—and blinked, double-checking his aim before squeezing the trigger. The gunshot sounded, well, like a gunshot, in the silence, and Eliot jumped away. Dean grabbed a sharp metal pole laying on the ground as he ran forward, grabbing the woman before she could recover from the gunshot, throwing her to the ground, and bringing the sharp edge down on her neck. He had to hit her neck several times before her head _finally_ came off. He checked her teeth—yep, vampire—and then looked up at Eliot, tossing the pole away.

 

Eliot was staring at him, stunned. Dean knew he was covered in blood, but at the moment he didn’t care. He just cared about getting the hell out of this town before someone else discovered the body. “What the hell was that?” Eliot finally said, his voice strangled.

 

Dean just shrugged. “You’re welcome,” he said shortly, tucking his gun back into his waistband as he jogged unsteadily down the sidewalk to where the Impala was parked, weaving slightly.


End file.
